You take a moment of pause to close your eyes, enjoy a good scratch on the crotch and toss about the bed, but when you can't get comfortable you bolt upwards and swing your feet to the floor. "Nah, forget it. I'm at Redwall. The Redwall," you say to yourself as you look around the spacious infirmary. "Should at least check out more than one room before moving on, right?"
Vaguely, you recall the multitude of times that Redwall's infirmary was described in the books and it looks about right with two rows of beds set up against the walls. Open windows let the let shine in and the fresh air flows through the muggy room with every passing breeze. And you were not the only one dragged in from the river, so it seems. Several bodies apart from your own occupy the beds, some more restful than others, but none of them seem to have given you any mind. Yet. You spy a doorway at the far end of the room and make your way towards it, moving past the sleeping figures bundled up in their covers, and wave enthusiastically to those who stare look at you in confusion. One thing that catches your eye is a cloth of a purple and red diamond pattern that is draped over the bedposts.
"I'd know that harlequin getup any day. Slagar!" you exclaim loudly enough to make the other stir as you lean over the foot of the bed. The head pressed against the pillow turns over as the red fox's eyes squint against the light trying to focus on you. "So cunning, so shrewd," you continue to comment , "a villain so, ehhh, by the books, shall we say? But I guess that's why you were easily identifiable." You grin as you absentmindedly flick one of his toe claws peeking out from under the covers and they recoil away. "Tell me, what'cha doing back in Redwall? Did the abbot turn a blind eye to you, again?"
Slagar raises his paws from under the covers and rubs them over his face. You notice that it is free from the scarring that his signature hood was intended to conceal. He releases a growl from his throat as he groans out, "Ambushed by the Long Patrol, I am pitied by the Redwall mice once more, and now, am I to be haunted by this revolting wretch?"
You purse your lips at his insult and fire back, "You're one to talk. Last I remember, you looked like a fox who took a hot clothes iron to the face. What happened Slaggy? Got a little lift-and-tuck in your downtime . . . at the bottom of the well?" You snicker as you see the fox's face twist through a phase of being shaken moving onto anger and then a sudden exuberance as his paws shoot out for your throat in a second.
You try to speak, but your words come out in a gurgle and completely incoherent. "Aaakk! Thesh eshcalerted v'rry qwerklr."
Augh! This escalated very quickly.
Despite any misgivings you might have had about the fox and his condition, Slagar's grip proves to be solid as your own hands close on his wrists to pry his enraged fingers loose while they cut off your air supply. Strangely enough, while your struggling with that, eyes bugging out with the unpleasantness of it all, you do not lose consciousness. The scene drags on for a good minute and Slagar is pinning you down, getting a few swipes in with his right paw, and you still clock him square behind the jaw hard enough to topple him sideways. The fox's paw releases your throat
"Damn!" you exclaim, sitting up. "You had me going for a moment there! I mean, you went all Boston Strangler on me when I thought you'd be, blaaaaugh, all comatose like---". You are cut off when the fox launches at you again, knocking the wind out of you as you yelp loudly. Once again you are not winded as the scuffle continues to rage between the pair of beds. Now the attention of the other critters awake enough to see whats going on has been shifted to fight that is increasing in intensity, curses and insults flying, slaps and punches landing, pained groans and girly screeches ringing out.
Having had enough, you decide that a dignified retreat is in order. You scramble under the nearest bed, huffing and gasping from the exhaustion, covered in nasty scratches and fox wounds. Trying to pull yourself up on the other side is caught short by Slagar grabbing you by your feet, prompting another surprised yowl from you. Looking around, you spot a shrew looking groggily at your from the bed ahead of you.
"No! Ya gotta help me!" you implore as you scratch at the stone floor for traction. "That meanie fights dirty! He bites and scraaaa-tches! No-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o!" Your wails land on deaf ears as your are pulled back under, finger nails scraping at the ground.
"What's all this commotion I'm hearin' all the way from the hall?" A voice interrupts Slagar as something jabs him hard in the ribs. He halts his attempts to turn you spinal column into an accordion as the current caretaker of the infirmary confronts the recently revived fox. Sister Sloey confronts Slagar with naught but a wooden spoon to branding before his nose. "There will be no fightin' within these walls."
"Quiet, mouse." Slagar says hoarsely, the scuffle with you draining much energy from his already weakened state. "The newcomer needs to be taught a lesson in humility. The sooner he learns his pla-AAH!"
You on the other hand decide that you were not out of it just yet. Springing back in with a second wind, you pick up a diminutive nightstand and smash it violently into the distracted fox's head for a decisive victory. The fox flies forward quite a ways, forcing little Sloey to spring desperately out of the way as he crashes to the ground for the K.O..
"Aww yeah, and it's a home run to the left field! Red fox; corner pocket!" You raise your fists and pace back and forth before the downed fox while spouting sports goals to add insult to injury. The shocked mouse that you barely acknowledge bolts out, calling for assistance. "All hail to the mighty mountain of man that is (your name)."
You curtail your victory babble as you eye the fox crumpled on the floor. "Hay, Slagar, you just unconscious, or are your dead?" You as while rolling him over. He doesn't seem to be breathing, and your not one to check for a pulse or anything. Maybe the way one eyelid is open more than the other and the tongue hanging out, the worst should be assumed. "He might be dead," you muse. "But," you consider all details, including the fact that you're still holding your breath from the excitement of the fight, deciding that things are not all what they seem, "I'll give him the benefit of the doubt."
Rather unceremoniously hauling Slagar back to the bed by his tail, you heave him back up, plant him face first in his pillow, body falling pretty much prone eagle except for one arm hanging off the side. Now he looked like someone hung over after downing five four-ohs the previous night. Adding the final touch by yanking the covers across to him land mostly on his upper half completes the look of a sleeping frat boy. And you congratulate yourself. "Sleep tight."
"Now where was I?" you ponder, scratching your chin. "Oh, right! Let's hit the abbey."
You start for the door once again, getting only a few paces away from seeing the chamber beyond when something moves into your way. It's a figure, tall, robust and imposing. She is feminine in build and in her attire. When her eyes meet yours and glare down daggers back into your sockets, your mind seems to click a connection in. You don't know how you know, but you immediately identify the badger as Constance from the first two books.
"Oh, why, Sloey?," you whine at the mouse standing behind the mountain of black and white. "You two aren't ever in the same book together and you send in the most ornery badger to grace Redwall?" The comment comes out as a question from your incredulity.
"Listen here, Dead Fan, Redwall Abbey is a grounds for peace and healing when it comes to you revivers," the badger mother footsteps thunder as she approaches you. "Your strange talk, your foul temper won't sit well with us Redwallers, nor with any other goodbeasts. The vermin are likely to shred you to ribbons the moment you open your uncouth gob. Perhaps a few more murders on your soul would help you settle down. I'm sure the abbey council would not forgo throwing a reviver as troublesome as you right over the walls. So it's your choice Dead Fan," she menaces, teeth baring as she points a claw to your vacated bed, "abide the abbey or shove off!"
"Okay, maybe Cregga was worse," you concede as you back away from the advancing badger mother, "but I still didn't like you."
Her deepening growl and flexing claws say that you better make a choice, quick.
"Hmm," you look heavenward to the left, "behave myself and probably get chaperoned for the rest of my stay at Redwall." Your eyes shift right as you continue to ponder, "I could make a tactical retreat, making things worse for myself. Or I could.. .. . . .. . "
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